


Blessed

by shaniacbergara



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is Jewish, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is Jewish, Crowley yells at God, Good Omens Is Jewish, Jewish Character, Jewish!Aziraphale, Jewish!Crowley, M/M, Sheyd!Crowley, good Omens is Jewish and so am i
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 20:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaniacbergara/pseuds/shaniacbergara
Summary: They're Jewish??? What more do you WANT from me??





	Blessed

They’d been with them since the beginning. Aziraphale liked to study, even before there was much to study. He liked to read and to write and to puzzle things out. He found the people who liked to puzzle over things, to study and read and reread. It was safe, to ask questions with them, safe to wonder without fear of falling. There aren’t many Jewish angels, but Aziraphale liked to think of himself more as an Angel Who Is Jewish, rather than a Jewish Angel. So he went to yeshiva, he asked questions, he read and reread. He’d take a break, a few years of quiet. Well, of quiet and Crowley, before returning to a different yeshiva.

“Why would G-d say ‘I will be what I will be?’ when Moses asks who it is?” He asked, quietly, to his study partner. “Does Hashem see that there is a potential for growth?” He asked, desperately, and his study partner would answer him, louder, not being afraid of who might hear. They would have a discourse, and Aziraphale would leave satisfied for the day. The next day, more questions.

“If murder is a sin, why would the Torah allow capital punishment?” He asked, and they would talk about rabbinic insurance. And eventually, always, it would tumble back to the events he’d seen. He’d witnessed, but could not overcome.

“Why would the Almighty tempt Eve over Adam?” He cursed himself for his slip of the tongue. Crowley had done the actual tempting, he was convinced, and “Is there such a thing as an innocent Egyptian?” And on and on and on. 

Crowley would visit him there, would pop in. Aziraphale took some comfort, in those early days, knowing that Crowley would always find him. Before they had any sort of Arrangement, when it was just run ins and happenstance. But Crowley was never much one for reading and rereading. It hurt his eyes, for a start, snake eyes weren’t generally meant to read. He liked to argue, that was true, but he didn’t much care for arguing with other people, unless you counted Aziraphale as People, but that was debatable. No, he preferred to argue with the Almighty Herself, and he did, frequently. 

Crowley had been arguing with Her practically since the beginning. 

“So you’re telling me, that just because Eve sought knowledge, her pain, and those like her, will continue for all time?!” He’d shouted this to the sky, after he’d met Aziraphale on the wall. Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to hear any of his questions, right then, it was too risky, so he’d shouted them amidst the thunder. But that was nothing compared to the shouting match after Noah landed on Ararat. He’d waited, silently, until he was sure he was alone, urging the children to be as silent as possible, before he’d shepherded them out of the ark. 

“Fuck you.” He’d insisted at the sky, pointing a finger towards where he supposed She might be. “Fuck you. How dare you? Children have not sinned enough to make them worthy of such annihilation. Nobody has sinned enough to be worthy of that. Fuck your covenant and fuck your fucking rainbow.” Was it still considered a match if it was one way? Perhaps. And again, after the tenth plague. As pogroms swept through Eastern Europe. From the depths of despair and throughout every injustice, Crowley shouted at Her. 

But they didn’t just question, didn’t just shout. For six days they worked, Aziraphale, up to quite a bit of good. Lots of good deeds, as Crowley had hissed, mockingly, but fond. Crowley, up to no good, obviously. They worked, spreading forment and goodness, sometimes doing the opposite of what they, strictly speaking, were meant to be doing, in the name of the Arrangement. But on Shabbat, they took the day for themselves. A minor miracle, transporting themselves to their shul. Praying together, resting together over wine and challah and whatever they could find. Praying, in shul. A kind of shouting match, Crowley told himself, but he knew it wasn’t so. It was a comfort, a balm over the raw anger he felt towards Her at times. He needed it. For Aziraphale, it was traditions, comfort and ritual and spiritual. They sought Shabbat together every week. 

The first time was in the forties, shortly after that debacle at the church. They happened upon each other, Crowley emerged from his tallit to find the angel in front of him, staring.

“Crowley.” He greeted.

“Naftali, here.” Crowley requested, and Aziraphale inclined his head. “Haven’t ever seen you here before.” He mentioned. He’d needed to be here, had been coming here to this shul, full of refugees and tired eyes, for years now. 

“I’ve been going to one on the other side of town.” Aziraphale confessed. 

“But you’re here now.” Crowley pointed out. 

“I’ve been working up the courage, if you must know.” His voice dropped to a whisper as they entered the sanctuary, moving to the right of the partition. These bodies did resemble men, in their own way. “I wanted...well, I wanted to be here, with you, on Shabbat.” It feels like a confession to Aziraphale, like he’s giving too much away. 

“I’m glad.” And Crowley is, Davening helps ease the fury, Aziraphale helps even more. Davening with Aziraphale? It sounds like bliss. 

“Aren’t your feet-?” Aziraphale is concerned, remembers him hopping about, but Crowley just shakes his head.

“It’s different, here. Maybe just since I’ve been here since the beginning. Before, we couldn’t consecrate ground when we had to keep moving. Maybe it’s because, as a sheyd, I probably ought to follow mitzvot and daven, I’ve never asked.” He admitted, but they quieted down and davened. After that, it had been tradition. Aziraphale did so like a routine.

When the end of the world looms, Crowley and Aziraphale spend more than just Shabbat together. They run in concentric circles, doing their level best to keep Warlock on the middle path. Aziraphale shows him the path of the righteous, Crowley tempts him to be wicked. Throughout it all, Aziraphale wonders if Crowley isn’t on the path of the righteous, too. All the while, Adam Young sits in Hebrew School, learning his letters and vowels, set to find his own path, one way or another. 

They talk about it, after, and Adam has endless questions for them. Questions about Avraham, questions about wrestling with the Almighty, questions about Lilith, even. Outraged questions about Dinah, about Lot’s wife. Curious questions about Miriam, about Daniel. Crowley answers him in full, Aziraphale prompts him into a discussion, missing his Yeshiva days, not used to be able to be the one to answer questions. He feels safe, they all feel safe, if only for now.

Later, much later, after tentative touches and careful kisses have evolved into something much better, Aziraphale whispers questions to Crowley, too. 

“Did you save the children?” He asks, and Crowley admits it, would have admitted it whenever Aziraphale had asked. 

“Of course.” He said. “Had to.” And Azriaphale nods against his shoulder, where his head is resting. 

“Wisdom is so important to us, why did She punish them so for seeking it?” He whispers. 

“I don’t know.” The answer is torn from Crowley’s throat.

“Do you ever wish you hadn’t-” He begins, but stops himself. Crowley looks at him, takes his glasses off, shows him it’s okay to ask. Aziraphale tries again. “Do you ever regret tempting her?”

“Didn’t take much tempting.” He replies. “They were doomed to fail from the start.” And this, Azriaphale knows, is absolutely true.

Aziraphale isn’t angry. Crowley’s anger lurks, it presents itself sometimes, but it has never frightened Aziraphale. It might have, a long time ago, but Aziraphale has his side now. Aziraphale isn’t angry, he asks his questions, and when he doesn’t get an answer he gets a lesson regardless. But he saves his anger for other things, because his questions and his devotion to being an Angel Who Is Jewish and, sometimes, a Jewish Angel has led him to Crowley. And he can’t find the drive to be angry about it. Crowley, whispering his evening Shema, begrudgingly thanks Her. Because, when all is said and done, Aziraphale is sleeping next to him, and for all his fury, he is blessed.


End file.
